


widow's line

by andibeth82



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Banter, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Weapons Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 06:29:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1294888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s a grappling hook,” she explains as Clint blows out a breath.</p><p>“Yeah, I got that. I have one, remember? In fact, I think you just dismantled it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	widow's line

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely inspired by the footage in the Winter Trailer solider, most notably, [this](http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com/post/76582123250/fromthemiddleoftheocean-strike-team-delta) gifset. Hey, that looks familiar! (And yes, I know according to comics, this is something Natasha actually already has - hence the title of this work - but I couldn't pass the idea up, especially since we've never seen her use it in the MCU.)
> 
> There is literally not enough thanks for my constant, [bobsessive](http://bobsessive.tumblr.com) whose beta not only made this better, but who spent far too much time helping me research the logistics of making weaponry in order for this to be accurate. (I'd love to know what someone would think of my computer search history if they ever found it...)
> 
> And to [fidesangelus](fidesangelus.tumblr.com) and [hjea](http://hjea.tumblr.com) for helping nurse this from a flaily text of a thought on Superbowl Sunday into an actual story.

When Clint Barton walks into his room on the Helicarrier, the first thing he notices is that his dresser drawer is slightly askew, the bed pushed back against the wall, the door of the closet just barely ajar.

It’s a fine job, really. The room itself is otherwise perfectly immaculate, the same way he left it five hours ago, and to anyone else it probably wouldn’t look like anything was out of place. But Clint’s trained better than most to pick out these differences: the tells of someone having been here and also having left a mark without so much as a hint of their presence.

His first thought is Fury. He’d been on his bad side more often than not lately: missions gone awry and general unruliness on the job. Still, for all his annoyances, he can’t imagine that the Director would be so invasive as to go through his personal items. He had nothing to gain from it, except for maybe trying to figure out if Clint was hiding a few classified files from the Istanbul case - and besides, Clint also can’t imagine Fury being so careful about it. If he was snooping, Clint would know; it would be much more obvious.

So. Maria, then. Hill certainly knew how to be stealthy; she stole his coffee mug on more than one occasion, cleaned it and put it back without him ever knowing there was another pair of lips drinking out of it. He hadn’t let on how much it bothered him he missed _that_ one, mostly because he knew Natasha would never let him hear the end of it.

And Natasha… _Natasha_ …

Well, there was only one person on board who had complete access to his bunk at all hours.

Clint turns on his heel and beelines towards the elevator, taking the car all the way down to the ground floor. He’s surprised to find the gym empty, deserted after-hours by even the most dedicated agents, and is more surprised to find her sprawled out on a mat next to the spare punching bags, casually clothed save for her wrist gauntlets attached to both hands. Her fingers are expertly maneuvering a small piece of metal with the kind of fine concentration he’s only ever seen her employ when she’s targeting an assassin, and he approaches slowly, figuring she’ll pick up on his movements the way she always does but perplexed when she seemingly doesn’t.

Clint clears his throat softly. “Uh…hi?”

“Hi.” She doesn’t look up, just keeps fiddling with the small piece of hardware, pressing it in and around the parts of her widow’s bite that he knows she keeps fully charged, even when not in use. He shuffles his feet a little uncomfortably, moving closer.

“I was just…” He pauses, squinting at the floor. “What are you doing?”

There’s no immediate answer, and through the space of growing silence, his eyes narrow in on what she’s working on, his brain piecing together the rope and the metal and some very familiar pieces of weaponry that he would be able to pick out of a landfill.

“Hang on. Is that my arrowhead?”

“It was,” Natasha replies nonchalantly, finally sitting back on her heels and glancing up, shaking hair from her eyes. “I made some modifications.”

“Modifi – are you insane?” He yelps, stepping back, unable to control his reaction. Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Calm down. And lower your voice; I don’t need anyone discovering us down here. It was hard enough to find a quiet place to work.”

Clint opens his mouth and then closes it abruptly, sliding to the floor in front of her as she bends over and continues to work again, this time tucking the small arrowhead into the folds of her wrist gauntlet. He frowns.

“Can I ask why in the hell you’re modifying my arrowheads?”

Natasha smiles then, holding up her work to show where a small piece of rope hangs from the side of the gauntlet, swinging in front of his face, the same way he remembers waving a piece of meat in front of one the circus animals to goad them into cooperating for one of his acts.

“What…”

“It’s a grappling hook,” she explains as Clint blows out a breath.

“Yeah, I got that. I have one, remember? In fact, I think you just dismantled it.”

“Mmmhmm,” Natasha hums, re-attaching the gauntlet to her wrist, expertly flexing her fingers as she does so.

“So this is…”

“I told you,” she repeats, finally meeting his eyes for the first time. “It’s a grappling hook. For repelling, as you well know. And I’m sure it’ll come in handy for other things as well.”

Clint bites his lip, trying to make sense of this entire chain of events, all of which are seemingly strange to him. It isn't that he doubts the fact Natasha can engineer her own weapons - that's a given; he’s known about that detail since the first day they met. What bothers him is the fact that, all of a sudden, she seems to be taking an interest in needing _more_ of them, and ones different than her usual stash.

Clint could get by on arrows, but Natasha could get by without a single weapon if she wanted to – in fact, she rarely used them at all unless she was in close combat or in a dire situation, and that was partially what made her so deadly.

“Since when do you need a grappling hook?” He finally asks when he decides to speak again, scrubbing a hand across his face. “You have all sorts of stuff already.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Are you in charge of telling me how many weapons I should have?”

“What? No, I -”

“Good,” Natasha continues simply, standing up and stretching her legs as she cuts him off. Clint follows, folding his arms, watching as she turns slowly. At the last minute she whirls back, shooting her wrist forward with a single and calculated flick. The rope that he had seen from earlier sends a hooked prong flying towards his face and he ducks at the last possible second, cursing and then thanking his skilled reflexes for saving his life.

Natasha steps forward, surveying where the arrowhead has deployed, opening into a four-clawed spike onto the floor next to him.

“Well,” she muses, staring at the ground. “I think it works.”

“Are you insane?” Clint nearly yells for the second time that evening. Natasha shrugs and he groans, grabbing her wrist for a better look while his eyes inspect the combination of her work and the material she’s used. “And how the hell did you make it retract?”

“Magic,” Natasha replies smugly, before rolling her eyes. “I built in a lever. Works like a boomerang, you know, those arrows you’re so fond of. Sucks it back in, compresses the hook to restring the rope –”

“Yeah, okay,” Clint interrupts. “I get it. Where did you find these things, anyway?”

“The rope’s vibranium, arrowheads are Starks, as you know,” Natasha replies without hesitation. “And the rest came from the weapons black market.” She turns her hand around in his so he can obtain a better view. “It’s a wrist dart gun. Pretty easy to manipulate if you have all the materials.”

“Huh.” Clint drops her arm. “S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn’t just provide you with an extra?”

“I’m sure they could have,” Natasha replies evenly. “I just didn’t feel like going through protocol.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Clint grumbles, but he’s smiling now, sharing her smirk, and it’s hard for him to forget the fact that one of the reasons why they work well together in the first place is because they both have a terrible disregard for authority, intentional or not.

“Look,” he says, gesturing with his arms. “If you’re gonna do this, at least let me help. I mean, it _is_ my design.”

“No,” Natasha corrects. “It’s Stark’s design.”

“But I figured out how to make it work!”

“Yes, perfectly,” she returns dryly, as Clint huffs out a defensive breath at what she’s implying.

“It saved my life.”

“ _And_ put your shoulder out of commission for at least a week, if I remember correctly,” Natasha points out, noting the scowl that climbs across his face at the words. “This just needed a little bit of tinkering – nothing I couldn’t handle, the fourth claw seems to do the trick - but I think, in the end, it’ll work out just fine.” She shakes her wrist again, as if feeling out her work, this time being careful to point it away from his face.

“I do wonder what this would be like at high distances.”

Clint meets her eyes and swallows, suddenly trying to clear the image from his brain - Natasha repelling off some high ravine, expertly deploying the grappling hook from her gauntlet, smoothly swinging from one target to the next. Goddamn, he doesn't have time for this. Not now. Not _here_. He can’t tell whether she’s picked up on his reaction or not, but he’s still trying to get his head back to reality when she lifts a brow, nodding in his direction with a smile that speaks volumes.

“Care to find out?”

 

***

 

An hour later, Clint still hasn’t gotten over the image of Natasha scaling down the foam wall, her agile form slipping through the air as she flips, rolls and lands gracefully on her feet - only instead of seeing it in his head, he’s actually watching it in real time. She’s changed from track pants and a loose shirt into workout shorts and a low cut tank top, her grown out curls creating waves down her shoulders, which she’s pulled back into a loose bun to keep her eyes clear. He watches her make the same series of moves over and over again, mesmerized by the strength and speed of her body, squirming uncomfortably when he’s sure she’s not looking, in order to keep from giving himself away. It’s not that he’s never seen her fight before, but he’s usually watching the action through a leather suit, too caught up in his own battle to pay proper attention to the way she moves. Now, with the lack of clothes and the small space and no distractions, he can see every expanse of muscle, every ripple of her thigh and every flick of her arm, and it’s almost too much for him to handle.

“Take a picture, Barton,” she says when she finally takes a break, walking over to meet him. “It’ll last longer.” He realizes too late that he’s still staring across the room and embarrassingly averts his eyes as she gets closer, doesn’t miss the grin spreading across her face.

“You’re acting like you’ve never seen me in combat before.”

Clint bites down hard on the inside of his cheek and fuck, she’s definitely not playing around, and he can _tell_ , and to be honest, the whole thing seems terribly unfair.

“It’s not that…”

“Well, what is it then?” She tilts her head slightly. “Jealous of my new weapon?”

He laughs, consciously stopping himself from looping an arm around her waist as she steps closer. “I stopped being jealous of any weapons when you used your thighs to take out that thug in Paris.”

She purses her lips as if she’s considering his response with more seriousness than he thinks he deserves. “I suppose that’s fair.”

She’s right up in his space now, her free hand clutching the wrist dart, which he soon realizes is dangling dangerously close to his lower extremities. Natasha curves her lips as she runs a hand over the back of his neck, down his shoulders.

“I was thinking maybe we could continue this practice session at home.”

“Repelling off the bed? Now there’s something new.” Clint fights to sound and look natural, a losing battle that’s only halfway successful because he’s all too aware that they’re still on work grounds, and getting caught making out with his partner would definitely put him on Fury’s bad list for longer than he cared to know. Natasha laughs softly, and whether the laugh is because of him or just because she’s actually enjoying herself, he can’t quite tell.

“I _did_ tell you about the time I tied up those two men in Madrid with nothing but the ribbon from my corset, right?”

“It’s a…it’s a vague memory,” he manages to get out as she brings her head up to meet his, her lip skirting over the skin of his cheek, her body positioned in such a way that to anyone passing by, it would look like she might have been checking him for facial injuries sustained in training. She steps back after a longer moment, walking backwards.

“Meet me in my room in ten minutes,” she says, inclining her head towards the door. “Oh, and Barton?”

He meets her eyes questioningly and she waits until she’s sure he’s got her full attention before relaxing into a grin. “Plan to stay the night. I think we have some weaponry to work on.”


End file.
